Murder in Midtown

by Liz Freeland

  She studied me. “Your hair’s all bumpy. Were you asleep?”

  “I’m awake now.” I brushed a hand over my hair and rearranged a few pins as I glanced at the mantel clock over the bricked fireplace. It was six o’clock. “What are you doing home?”

  Callie’s rehearsal schedule seemed relentless. The show was set to open Thanksgiving week, and they were scheduled for an out-of-town tryout in Philadelphia first.

  “Most of us got a four-hour dinner break. Annette, the leading lady, can’t carry a tune to save her life, and the director’s starting to panic. I don’t know what he thinks he can do with her during dinner to solve that problem, unless he’s got a Frankenstein lab set up backstage and intends to do experiments with her and some canaries.”

  I laughed. “It’s a break for you, anyway. Do you want something to eat?”

  “Not really. I had a big lunch with Teddy, which is a break for you. Here’s what he told me over a filet of sole: Guy owed money to Leonard Cain.”

  “Oh.” I’d leaned forward to hear the big news, but now I sank back again. What was left of my afternoon after leaving Jackson had been spent looking into Guy’s financial situation. He was not only in arrears at his club, he personally owed money to several members for card game losses and also to the old man who worked as the club’s concierge, from whom he had borrowed cab fare. Additionally, I discovered he had failed to pay a bill to one tailor and a jeweler near the office. This was probably the tip of the iceberg. “I’d already figured out that Guy had money problems.”

  Callie kicked off her shoes and then tucked her feet under her. “If you’re going to send me out snooping, you need to keep me up to date. I feel bad enough wheedling information out of Teddy. If it’s going to be old news, I’d just as soon skip it. Anyway, these weren’t small money problems. Hugh let slip to Teddy that Guy had asked him for an enormous sum—several thousand dollars.”

  “Did Hugh give him anything?”

  “Teddy doesn’t know. Hugh was saying that to give him the money, they would have to stop work on the project they’re working on—some sort of stabilizer for mounting photography equipment on airplanes. But Teddy says the work at the air park has gone on without a hitch, so Hugh couldn’t have given all his cash to Guy.”

  Would you kill our mother? Guy had asked Hugh. Would Edith Van Hooten have been upset to learn that her son had racked up debt? The family wasn’t living in genteel poverty. Surely even a few thousand dollars, a sum that would ruin most people, wouldn’t have caused more than a few tremors in the Van Hooten family finances.

  “I wonder what Guy wanted that large a sum for,” I said. To pay off his club dues and tailors, or something else?

  “At the aerodrome one day, Hugh was in a stew and told Teddy that Guy had finally gone too far. He said the way Guy was gambling at the Omnium Club and carrying on, there might not be a Van Hooten Aeronautics before long.”

  The Omnium, Cain’s club. That man’s name set off all kinds of alarm bells. But if Hugh was worried that the family money keeping his airplane business afloat would be diverted to pay for Guy’s excesses, that would give Hugh a strong motive for murder. Though wouldn’t burning down another family enterprise, the publishing house, be counterproductive?

  Unless the building was heavily insured. I needed to look into that.

  “Hugh also told Teddy he should be happy to have sisters, and Teddy agreed he liked sisters because girls are so much jollier.” Callie smiled. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Did Hugh think it was sweet?”

  “Hugh said, ‘You think girls can’t cause a family trouble? That’s all you know!’” She shook her head. “That’s what’s so puzzling about Hugh. One moment he’s nice and friendly—Old Hoots—and then he gets in a mood. That’s what Teddy says, at least.”

  Teddy didn’t strike me as the brightest bulb on the marquee, yet what he said about Hugh’s personality lined up with what I’d observed the one time I’d met him. “I wonder if Hugh could have killed his brother.”

  “That’s what Teddy said we shouldn’t think.”

  I froze. “You didn’t let on to Teddy that we were investigating the murder, did you?”

  “I’m not that dippy,” Callie said. “I just asked him, like I was curious and the idea occurred to me. I can act, you know.”

  I hoped she’d done some Laurette Taylor–caliber acting.

  “Anyway, Teddy insisted Hugh wouldn’t swat a fly,” she said. “Teddy might have his faults, but he’s a good judge of character.”

  “How well do you really know him?”

  She crossed her arms. “I’ve known him for two months, which is more like two years with some people. Teddy’s an open book—unlike others I could mention.”

  She meant me. Callie was my closest female friend, yet there were things I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tell her. “Everyone has secrets.”

  “Not Teddy. Or if he does, it’s something like having broken a neighbor’s window with a baseball when he was nine.”

  For a moment, I thought about what we let our friends see, and what we didn’t. “Maybe Hugh Van Hooten is adept at masking the Mr. Hyde side of his personality. I don’t suppose you could arrange it so I could talk to him?”

  “I might someday, but right now Teddy said Hugh’s sticking close to home. He’s even planning to skip the aerodrome on Sunday to stay with his mother.”

  “Currying favor with the matriarch,” I said.

  Callie leveled a shaming stare at me. “The poor woman’s just lost her son. If Hugh weren’t staying close by her, you’d be calling him a monster.”

  She was right. “I’m seeing everything through a lens of suspicion.” It wasn’t hard to guess why. “I bumped into Ford Fitzsimmons today.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

  “He’s just as egotistical as ever. He’d heard about the fire and was worried his book was lost. The man cornered me in a hallway and for a moment I thought he might have been Guy’s murderer. But he wouldn’t have wanted Van Hooten and McChesney to burn down, so it doesn’t fit, unfortunately.”

  “It’s only unfortunate if you have your heart set on Ford’s being a murderer.”

  “There’s no one I’d rather see in Sing Sing.”

  “Well, you’re still in one piece, so perhaps he’s mended his ways.”

  I was still in one piece, but my reaction to Ford reminded me of something important. If I let personal prejudices cloud my judgment, I’d never get anywhere. The point of conflict in all the stories about Guy’s last days was the question of money. Guy was in debt. The most likely person he owed a large debt to was Leonard Cain, the person Guy had last been seen with. Somehow, I needed to find out why Cain had visited Guy Wednesday night.

  So what was I waiting for? I stood up and headed for my bedroom.

  Callie tagged after me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I need to go out.”

  “Now?” Callie asked as I threw open my wardrobe and cast a critical eye over my two evening dresses.

  “Neither seems right,” I said, frustrated.

  “Right for where?”

  “The Omnium Club.”

  Her face collapsed into a grave frown. “You need to watch your step around Leonard Cain, Louise. My friend Flossie in the chorus said that a fella she was stepping out with had a cousin who worked for a guy who was bumped off by some of Cain’s men.”

  The word of a girl of a fella of a cousin was thin testimony, but the seriousness in Callie’s voice convinced me she believed Flossie’s tale.

  “Why would Cain have killed the man?” I asked.

  Callie shrugged. “Business, was all Flossie knew.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “By a gunman late at night outside his apartment.” She let that sink in for a moment and said, “I’m telling you, Cain is dangerous. Flossie said there was another associate of Cain’s who died the same way.”

  Worry rippled thr
ough me, but I steeled myself. “If a little Broadway chorus hearsay puts me off, I shouldn’t be investigating at all. I’m looking into a suspected murder. The culprit isn’t going to be a Boy Scout.”

  “But you will be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m always careful.” Callie’s raised brows compelled me to add, “Almost always.”

  She eyed me steadily. “The Omnium’s hardly a place a single girl can waltz into unaccompanied, you know. We might persuade Teddy to be your escort, but it’s such short notice.”

  I shook my head. “How would we ask him without letting on that I was investigating Guy’s murder?”

  “But you can’t just walk into the lion’s den by yourself. You’ll have to dig up somebody.”

  “I don’t have to dig. I’ve already got him.”

  * * *

  Callie devoted what was left of her break to dolling me up for the Omnium. “You might as well look good on your big night out.” Under her breath, she added, “Seeing how it might be your last.”

  She was full of grim humor as she looked me over with a mouthful of pins she’d just removed after tacking up the hem of one of her dresses that she was loaning me. And what a dress it was. A fitted top of ivory lace overlaid a silk messaline dress of pale green. The lace sleeves extended to three-quarter length, where Callie’s best evening gloves took over.

  “That color brings out the green in your eyes.” She poked the last of the pins into her pincushion, a little pewter dog with a green velvet pad on its back. “You might as well keep the dress. It’s always made me look like a corpse. Which reminds me . . . is this what you’d like to be laid out in when Cain finishes with you?”

  Apprehension gripped me. In borrowed finery, tottering on unfamiliar heels, I felt like an imposter. “Do you think I’ll stick out at the Omnium?”

  “I was only joking,” she said. “Just because you’re not used to dressing up to the nines doesn’t mean you’ll be conspicuous. And you certainly don’t look like a detective.”

  Fidgety, I glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late.”

  “That’s why they call them nightclubs.” She put her hands on her hips. “We need to find you something to carry. You can’t walk into the swellest spot in town with that saddlebag of yours looped over your shoulder.”

  She finished me off with a little black velvet bag—wholly impractical for carrying anything more than a key and some powder. To these I added a pencil for taking notes. Habit.

  The effect of Callie’s handiwork was clear in Otto’s eyes when he showed up. “Louise! You look so glamorous, I hardly recognized you.”

  Despite their reflection on my usual less-than-glamorous appearance, the words bucked me up. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  “No, no, no.” Callie practically vibrated in frustration. “You should look this beautiful all the time, because you are.” She frowned, adding, “At least you are until you start walking. Make sure you don’t clump.”

  I gave her my solemn oath to float like a fairy. Then I hugged her. “Thanks.”

  Her return hug segued into a readjustment of a few hairpins. “An artist’s work is never done,” she muttered.

  Otto turned his hat brim in his hands. “We’d better go.” He’d heeded my instructions to look smart. His hair was parted in the center and pomaded back sleekly enough to suit a magazine ad. He wore his dark coat dressed up with a red scarf. The creases of his best suit peeked above his black shoes, which had an extra shine on them. “I’ve got a cab downstairs.”

  We all trundled out and piled into the cab’s single seat. On the way uptown, Otto regaled Callie with the story of our meeting with Al Jolson. This morning seemed years ago to me now.

  We dropped Callie off at her theater before continuing on.

  “Have fun, you two,” she said in parting. “Watch out for gunmen.”

  Otto looked alarmed. “What did she mean?”

  I slid farther over on the seat. “Oh, you know Callie’s sense of humor.” Unless I wanted to lose my escort, now wasn’t the best time to tell him about the Cain method of removing inconvenient people.

  No one could accuse the Omnium of hiding its light under a bushel. The name was spelled out in electric bulbs above the columned entrance, where a uniformed doorman stood to greet guests. Or perhaps to keep them out. The closer I got to the man after Otto helped me out of the cab, the more I suspected the latter. He was well over six feet, with bristly red hair peeking out between his collar and his hat. His neck was as thick as a tree trunk, and beneath that livery were muscles like a carnie strongman’s.

  “Reservation?” he growled at Otto.

  “I wasn’t aware we needed one,” I said. Callie would have told me if we did.

  The giant flicked a glance at me, then addressed Otto again. “Been here before, bub?”

  Otto’s Adam’s apple hurdled over his starched collar. “No, sir.”

  Sirring the doorman would get us nowhere. The man probably wanted money—more money than Otto and I had on us if we wanted to pay the bill when we were done. I hooked my hand through the crook of Otto’s arm and tried to strike an imperious tone. “We’re meeting a friend of ours here. Al Jolson.”

  I squeezed Otto’s elbow, hoping he’d follow my lead. After an audible gulp, he did. “Is, um, Al here yet?”

  The man squinted, sizing us up again. “No, he ain’t.”

  There was nothing to do but brazen it out. I turned to Otto. “What time did he say he’d meet us?”

  “Eleven?” he squeaked.

  “He’s probably still at the Winter Garden, then.” I smiled at the doorman. “I’m sure it’ll be all right if we wait inside, won’t it? Al wouldn’t like to see us shivering out here on the sidewalk.”

  Grudgingly, the redheaded ox opened the door.

  Entering the Omnium was like stepping into another universe. A short entrance passage, where we offered up our outer things to an attendant, opened onto a colossal room. Modern chandeliers hung from the high, gold-painted ceiling. A black-lacquered bar stretched the length of the end of the room. The jet surface was nearly as reflective as the long beveled mirror behind tuxedoed barmen. Above the bar an overhang served as a mezzanine level with more tables overlooking the other tables below, which were arranged around a dance floor. I felt I’d entered a theater where the patrons were the performers. People stared at the dancers on the floor, customers at the bar and other tables. Even Otto and I drew attention, until we were rightly sized up as neither famous nor distinctive.

  I had a hard time not gaping all around me. The high walls of the club were decorated in the style of Greek pottery—with elongated black figures playing sports, gowned women striking elegant poses, and horses drawing chariots. All the figures were three times life size and limned against a sunset-orange background. Four lacquered support pillars also took up the motif, with the bottom half of each carved in the figure of a spear-carrying guard.

  The sheer frivolous opulence of it all dazzled me. I only snapped out of my awe when I noticed Otto taking it in with the same open-mouthed wonder. The officious maître d’ whose job it was to show us to our table was already halfway across the room. I nudged Otto and we hurried to catch up.

  The table he led us to was so close to the swinging kitchen door that I had to spring out of its way when a waiter burst through bearing a tray. For a moment, the clanking of pots almost drowned out the sound of the band playing “My Melancholy Baby.” Clearly, the maître d’ had sized us up as insignificant people.

  I frowned pointedly at the table and then drew my shoulders back. “This won’t do. We’ll wait for our party at the bar until a better table comes free.”

  The maître d’ stood his ground. “There might not be a better one.”

  “We’re waiting for our friend, Al Jolson,” Otto piped up.

  “Mr. Jolson?” The man’s expression was more skeptical than impressed, but the way he said the name confirmed that Jolson was a
regular here.

  I took Otto’s arm. “Mr. Klemper, a songwriter, is an associate of Mr. Jolson. Al has commissioned a piece from him.”

  “About the income tax,” Otto said.

  The man considered our words as a waiter carrying used glasses banged through the swinging door. It hit one of the chairs at our table on the rebound. The maître d’ frowned, obviously weighing the demands of two nobodies against the possibility of offending a famous patron. “I’ll see what I can do. Follow me.”

  He marched us back through the crowd to the bar, where he indicated two seats to us and rapped to get the attention of the nearest bartender. “The first round for this pair’s on the house, Bill.”

  “Gee, thanks!” Otto exclaimed.

  I gave him a sharp nudge with my foot. “Thank you very much,” I said with what I hoped was sophisticated reserve.

  We maneuvered ourselves onto the high seats. Otto leaned in to me. “What was that all about?”

  “The table was too far back,” I explained in a lowered voice. I could never have seen Leonard Cain from a tiny table by the kitchen.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

  I didn’t drink liquor often, even at my aunt’s weekly soirées. I said the first drink that came into my head, which was something I’d heard Callie mention and always wanted to try. “Two champagne cocktails.”

  When the bartender pushed them toward us, Otto and I eyed our glasses warily.

  “Looks like ginger ale with a maraschino cherry, doesn’t it?” he whispered.

  “Your Altoona’s showing.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” He touched his glass to mine. “Prost.”

  We drank and both fought to maintain smiles as the bitter bubbly hit our taste buds. “Definitely not ginger ale,” Otto gasped.

  After a few sips, though, I understood the appeal of the stuff. We polished off our glasses and ordered seconds.

  “Is Mr. Cain here tonight?” I asked the bartender.

  “He’s here most nights.” The bald man had a craggy face and a voice that sounded like Brooklyn.

  I scanned the room. “I don’t see him.”